


Whumptober 2019 - The Musketeers

by sternenblumen



Series: Whumptober 2019 [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Animal Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt Athos, Hurt Porthos, Hurt d'Artagnan, Period-Typical Racism, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-11-22 04:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20868395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: Short fics for the Whumptober 2019 prompts - see chapter summaries for more details.





	1. Explosion

**Author's Note:**

> These will be short, rough and unpolished since I didn't write ahead but am writing and posting as I go. Tags will be updated along the way. I hope you enjoy them!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s just a normal evening at the tavern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is super late (it’s 11 p.m. here), super rough, and I didn’t even manage to get in all the puns and snark about explosions I wanted … Eh. I went with a figurative explosion because I was in the mood for something lighter today.

d'Artagnan smiled as he took another sip of his wine. At the next table, Porthos was playing cards with a group of men he didn't know – it didn't look as if Porthos was cheating, though to be fair, d'Artagnan couldn't always tell. Next to him, Aramis was draped lazily over his chair, watching Porthos' hand with bright eyes. He didn't search female company today apart from the occasional flirtation with the tavern's maid, something that was almost ingrained in him by now, it seemed. Instead, he was just watching Porthos play and keeping up a steady stream of banter with his brother. Athos had taken residence in his usual corner but he was drinking slowly, and his gaze when it swept over them was sharp, with a hint of amusement. d'Artagnan, for his part, mostly threw in a remark here and there but otherwise was happy to watch as well. It was a lovely evening, and he felt himself relax and slide a bit deeper in his seat, a comfortable heaviness both from wine and the peaceful atmosphere settling into his limbs.

He was so caught in his own little world that he did not notice how the mood turned. A raised voice from the neighbouring table made him sit up and squint over at his brothers. Aramis was still sitting back in his chair, the perfect picture of relaxation, but for someone who knew him, the tension in his body was noticeable, and the eyes beneath his hat's brim were glittering with something more dangerous than the humour that had been there before. Next to him, Porthos was leaning back, his hands spread wide in an easy gesture. "Now," he was saying, "why don't you take some wine, and we'll play another hand? Tell you what, I'll go easy on you, even. Give you a chance to get back your coin, eh?"

The man opposite Porthos was standing up, his hands in fists on the table and his eyes narrowed. "Go easy on me?" he snarled. "So you'll stop cheatin'?"

"Don't know who you're accusin' of cheatin', here," Porthos said, his voice still pleasant. "Lady Luck's just on my side tonight." He waved to the maid, gesturing for another bottle of wine. "C'mon," he placated the man, "it's too much of a nice evening for fightin'."

d'Artagnan laughed, surprised. "Never knew you'd actually think an evening isn't so nice it can't be improved by a bit of fighting, Porthos!" he called over to him, only half in jest.

Porthos grinned at him, white teeth shining in the dim tavern light. "All in its own time, lad," he replied. "There's a time for fightin' but right now, it's a time for drinkin' and playin'."

The man opposite him snorted derisively. "At least you're jus' cheatin', not also pickin' fights you can't win, mongrel." The words fell heavy into sudden silence.

The next moment, things exploded. With one swift motion, Aramis had shot out of his seat and halfway over the table, grabbing the man's collar. "Don't you dare call him that!" the marksman hissed, yanking the man forward until he was almost laying on the table, coins and cards scattering everywhere. Porthos had a hand out as if to hold back Aramis but one of the other men at the table jumped up and threw himself at the large Musketeer. Another went for Aramis, and d'Artagnan was on his feet in an instant to get to his friend and help him, dimly aware that in the corner, Athos was moving, too. Then he encountered a fist swung at his face with full force, and for the next few minutes, he was too busy blocking and hitting back to pay much mind to what the others were doing.

When it was over, they were sitting in front of the tavern, ostensible the victors as the other men had limped away a few minutes earlier. d'Artagnan did not feel like much of a victor, though – his right eye was nearly swollen shut, and his back was throbbing where one of their opponents had struck him with a chair. The others didn't look much better, Aramis was cradling a sore arm to his chest, Athos was gingerly testing the edges of his split lip with his tongue, and Porthos was using his bandanna to press on a sluggishly bleeding wound at his temple. Still, Aramis' voice was bright when he said: "Well. Not the evening we wanted to spend, gentlemen, but still, it's all in a good day's work."

Porthos snorted. "Not exactly how the Captain would define 'work'," he pointed out.

"Eh," Aramis waved airily, "there's Musketeer work, and there's this work – the work of brotherhood."

Athos raised an eyebrow in response. "Those are the days when I wonder whether it wouldn't have been better if I had found some less dangerous pastime than spending time with present company," he drawled. "Like knife juggling, for example."

d'Artagnan burst out laughing, and Aramis and Porthos joined in immediately. Porthos slung an arm around Athos' shoulders and drew him close. "As if you ever regret passing time with us, _mon cher_!"

Athos shook his head and made a show of fighting off Porthos' hold, but d'Artagnan could see the smile lurking in his eyes. And maybe he was feeling a bit like a victor after all.


	2. Human Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attack in the forest leads to disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I’m so tired, and I don’t want to write, and it’s only day 4 but I’m tired, and I had an idea that turned out to be totally wrong for this prompt, and now I don’t know what to write, and … *whine*
> 
> Also me: *proceeds to write the longest piece of Whumptober yet*
> 
> \----  
By the way, I'm tentatively planning to switch between Stranger Things and the Musketeers for my Whumptober fics, so expect to see a new Muskie short every second day. Though if inspiration wants it to be otherwise, I'll follow it wherever it leads me, so this isn't set in stone ;).

The sound of a musket firing broke the quiet under the trees, and Aramis ducked instinctively. Something went whirring past and took part of a feather from his hat with it. A small, detached part of him mourned the loss even as he opened his mouth and called out to his brothers: "Ambush!" But then, better he lost his feather than his head.

He dropped from his saddle and took refuge behind his horse's broad back, trusting that the others would do the same. Readying his musket, he squinted into the low light permeating the forest. Dusk was not far – they would have had to make camp soon. Whoever was attacking them seemed to have counted on the bad lighting to better surprise them. Maybe he should be thankful for the loss of his feather; it seemed the attack had not been intended that way, given that no further shots were coming.

The thought had barely passed through his head when another round of shots burst forth, these clearly coming from several pistols. His horse whinnied aloud and reared as one of them cut a bloody furrow over its rump, and he scrambled back quickly to get out of the range of its flailing hooves. Even as he did so, his eyes were searching for their attackers. There! Aim, shoot, and then he threw himself behind a tree. Finally able to, he took a moment to draw a deep breath and look around for his friends.

The horses had spooked at the shots – probably because of the injury to his Lily, otherwise, the well-trained warhorses should have been able to withstand the sound of shooting. As it was, though, Lily had taken off, and the others had followed suit if he were to guess. Luckily, he could see all of their three owners who had taken shelter behind the trees like he had. d'Artagnan was to his left, back pressed against the tree and pistol held at the ready. To his right, he saw Athos, sword in hand, and beyond him, there was the unmistakable silhouette of Porthos, though he was almost melting into the dusky green of the forest half-light. Athos caught his eye, and they exchanged a look. Almost holding his breath, Aramis waited. No reason to volunteer being shot. The attackers wanted something from them, so they'd better come and get it.

It took a few heartbeats longer but finally, men emerged from the trees and rushed over to their hideout. d'Artagnan turned first and smoothly shot one man who went down hard. Aramis threw a proud grin in the direction of their youngest, then left cover and engaged the first man coming his way. The man wore ragged clothes, his face half-hidden behind a rough scarf, and he fought with more desperation than finesse. It was not much of a match to the Musketeer's training and years of experience, and it took no more than three strokes until Aramis' blade slipped under the man's parry and buried deep in his belly. He withdrew it and pivoted to search out his next adversary, sure that this one would do no more harm. He did not have to search long but spared a quick glance to his brothers, and he was reassured to see them all hold their own, even though Athos was fighting two men. Aramis turned his full attention back to the man in front of him and went decisively about the task of getting rid of him, so he could go help Athos. Another few strokes, and he broke through this man's defence, too, wasting no time at withdrawing and turning towards his friend to assist him.

Suddenly, there was a shout of "Arami--!", and at the same time, something, someone collided with his back, bringing him down onto the forest ground hard. A weight was pressing down on him, keeping him from moving, and he was aware of shouting around him though he failed to understand what was being said as he was too busy breathing through the sudden compression of his chest just this side of painful. A few heartbeats later, the bright spots that had popped up in his vision cleared, and he attempted to dislodge what was laying on him to turn around.

At the movement, a low groan sounded, and he stilled, suddenly understanding what had happened. Someone had thrown himself at him, and obviously not with a knife and the intention to kill him – which left one other explanation and three obvious options for who was lying on him. At once, he was terrified to turn and see who it was. But he was their medic, and instinct took over. He had to see if there was a wound, what the damage was. So he shifted carefully until he could wiggle a handspan or two to the side and felt some of the weight slide off his back. Most of it was now on his lower back and legs only, his upper body was almost free.

"Forgive me, _mon ami_," he murmured, then he dug his hands into the earth before his face and pulled himself forward with a sudden boost. The weight shifted, rocking with the force of it, and he found that it was only on his legs now. He could turn now, and he did so after taking a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to see.

He was greeted with the sight of d'Artagnan's lax face, the lad's body spilled gracelessly over his legs, and his heart seized painfully. "d'Artagnan," he breathed, reaching a trembling hand out to his face. His fingers found his neck and fumbled for a pulse. At the steady, strong beat that greeted him, he almost fell back to the ground, so strong was the relief flooding him. Instead, he flung himself into action, pulling his legs free from beneath d'Artagnan and at the same time looking around as he remembered with a jolt that he didn't know whether there were still some of the attackers, what had become of Athos and Porthos and where his sword had gone.

Fortunately, one of the questions was immediately answered as Athos appeared at his side, dropping to his knees. "Aramis! Are you hurt? d'Artagnan, is he--?" Aramis could barely remember having seen his friend so shaken before, eyes blown wide and face pale, which made the cut running over his cheek and spilling a thin trail of blood down to his chin stand out even more.

"I'm fine," he choked out. "He's alive. Where's Porthos?"

Athos threw a look over his shoulder. "Finishing off the last one," he reported, his voice slightly steadier at the news that their Gascon lived.

Aramis stretched out an arm which Athos grabbed, pulling him to his feet. "Do you know where he is hurt?" he asked.

Athos shook his head. "I just heard him call your name and saw you fall. I had to--" he broke off, took a deep breath, then continued: "We had to finish off the men first."

Aramis nodded his understanding, then knelt down next to d'Artagnan's prone body. "Find our horses," he ordered. As always in these situations, Athos did as he had said without hesitation.

"Oh, d'Artagnan," Aramis murmured as he bent over his young friend, "you'll be the death of me one day. Always throwing yourself at things head first ..." He bit his lip painfully at the thought of this time possibly being _d'Artagnan's_ death and quickly pushed the thought away, turning his attention to searching for a wound instead.

It was easy to spot – on d'Artagnan's tan leathers, a dark spot was rapidly growing on his right shoulder, just below his pauldron. Aramis drew his main gauche and carefully slid the tip into the hole in its middle, enlarging it slightly until he could see the wound itself. Probing it quickly revealed what he'd suspected immediately; the ball was still in there. He sat back on his heels, shoving a hand through his curls – he had lost his hat at some point, he realised absently. Looking around for Athos, he did not see him yet, so he set about divesting himself of his belt and weapons to undo his sash. They needed to stop the bleeding until he could get the ball out and sew the wound.

Porthos appeared on d'Artagnan's other side, kneeling down beside him. "Is he alright?" he asked tremulously, and Aramis gave him the shadow of a smile. "He's got the devil's luck, like always," he said, trying very hard to keep his voice from shaking. "Shoulder wound, the ball is still in there but it doesn't look too bad otherwise."

Porthos slumped down, weary with relief. "I thought--" he rasped, reaching over their friend's body between them to clasp a hand to Aramis' arm. "I thought you both were--" Again, he was unable to finish the sentence, and his hand squeezed Aramis' arm until it was almost painful.

The medic just gave his hand a pat. "I know, my friend, I know," he murmured. Then he freed himself gently from Porthos' grip and set about winding his sash firmly around d'Artagnan's shoulder and back as a makeshift bandage. "Go and help Athos find the horses," he told him. "We better get him somewhere where I can sew him up."

The large Musketeer nodded and got up. "We'll be right back. Don't go anywhere," he said and then winced at his own words.

Aramis snorted and shook his head. "Don't worry." He let his hand wander to d'Artagnan's head, stroking gently through the long hair. "We'll still be here when you come back. We'll be right here." And as the sound of Porthos' steps faded behind him, he clasped his crucifix with his free hand and sent a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the Lord. They were still here.


	3. Dragged away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers are just sent to escort a noble to Paris but something is not right when they reach his residence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I somehow stumbled into a multi-chapter thing … That wasn’t planned. I’m sorry for the cliffhanger!

"Athos ..."

"Yes, I see it," Athos snapped tersely as he swung down from his horse. He looked over his shoulder back at his brothers and added, softening his tone: "Leave the horses here and be ready for anything. This looks like trouble."

They nodded, and like always when the situation called for it, there was no playful banter, no questioning his orders as they followed him down to the ground and made quick work of securing the horses and readying their weapons. Athos turned his attention back to the land house of the minor noble they were supposed to escort to a visit at court. At first glance, everything was quiet – but the door was ajar which was unusual enough, and a second look had quickly revealed that the lock had been smashed. Robbers or someone who had more violent intentions? He had no idea who could mean the Comte de la Croix harm since the man was generally well-liked and stayed out of trouble, as far as he knew, but that did not mean it was impossible. He narrowed his eyes at the house but it stayed quiet, no signs of movement.

Aramis came up to his side and followed his gaze to the main door. "How do you want to handle this?" he asked. They were at the gate to the small estate, protected from the view from the house by a low wall that provided just enough cover if they ducked a bit – except for Porthos who dropped into a crouch next to them.

"I go first," Athos replied because there was no way to get to the door without being seen if someone was watching, and he would not send one of his brothers into the possible line of fire. Aramis drew a breath to protest, and he cut him off: "That's non-negotiable. You cover me. When I get to the door without incident, you follow. d'Artagnan, you go around the back and see if there's a servant's entrance. Porthos, you guard the door. Aramis, you and I go in."

His friends exchanged looks but clearly saw there was nothing to be gained by arguing, then nodded. Aramis and d'Artagnan took position left and right of the gate, holding their pistols at the ready. Porthos clapped Athos on the back and told him: "Don't get shot." His tone made clear that it was not really a joke.

Athos nodded back, then raised his own pistol and stepped out from the cover. For a moment, he held his breath but there was no shot, no movement from the house, no sign that he had been noticed. As quickly and carefully as he could, he crossed the distance to the front door and pressed his back against the house wall. With one hand, he gave the door a slight nudge so it opened a few more centimetres and he could glance inside. When there was still no movement, he blew out a relieved breath and raised a hand, gesturing to the others to join him.

They did so in short order, and at another nod, d'Artagnan slid away towards the back of the house while Athos carefully pushed the door open another bit until it was wide enough for Aramis and him to slide through into the house's entry hall. The hall lay empty and as quiet as it had been from the outside, and they exchanged a quick glance before going off in separate directions to investigate the other rooms.

The first room, a small sitting room, was empty. So was the next; however, in it, a table had been upturned, there were shreds of fabric strewn all over the place that had presumably belonged to the cushion that had also scattered goose feathers all throughout the room ... There had been a struggle. He was reassured by the lack of blood he found but the question still remained: What had happened to the inhabitants?

Coming back out of the room, he met Aramis who came from the opposite side, shaking his head as soon as he saw him. "Nothing; kitchen and storage room but they're empty," he said in a low voice. "No back entrance, either, so d'Artagnan won't find a way in, I fear."

Athos nodded and pulled him into the room to show him what he'd found. They exchanged worried glances, then went out into the hall again. "I take the cellar, you take the second floor," Athos instructed him, having spied a small staircase net to the kitchen entrance while a larger one swept upwards at the far wall of the hall.

"Alright," Aramis said with a tip of his pistol to the brim of his hat and strode off. Athos advance slowly down the stairs and found himself in a small, dimly lit passage. There were three wooden doors in the walls but the first he tried was locked and resisted his attempts to open it. He decided to leave it to Porthos' lockpicking skills later if necessary, turning towards the next one. A low sound reached his ears, and he froze. Standing stock-still, he strained his ears until he heard another noise – a low murmur that he quickly identified as voices muffled by stone or wood. As he took another few silent steps down the passage, the sounds became clearer, and he realised they were coming from behind the second door. He approached it carefully, pistol at the ready, and tried the handle. It was locked. The voices had fallen silent, and he waited for a moment, weighing his options, before he said aloud: "I'm Athos of the King's Musketeers! Who is there?"

There was another moment of silence, then a frantic voice called out: "Oh, thank the Lord! Free us, please! They locked us in here! I'm the owner of this house, de la Croix."

Athos breathed a sigh of relief. "Stand back from the door!" he ordered, giving the lock a critical look. "Are you in a safe distance?" he demanded after a moment, then, when de la Croix answered in the affirmative, he shot the lock and kicked the door open.

Inside, a middle-aged man was holding a woman of about the same age close; judged by their expensive clothes, they had to be the Comte and the Comtesse. Behind them, a plump woman and an old man in much simpler clothes cowered against the shelves lining the back of the room while a young lad was looking at the Musketeer in the doorway with a bright, inquisitive gaze.

"Monsieur le Comte," Athos greeted the man with a bow, "Madame, I hope you have not been harmed?" There was bruising on de la Croix' left cheek but the others seemed well.

The Comte waved it away. "Nothing major," he said brusquely, sounding a lot more in control than he had been a mere five minutes before. "Have you apprehended the brigands that have assaulted me in my own home?"

"We have not yet found any of them," Athos said regretfully. "The house seemed to be emp--" A crash from upstairs interrupted him, and he immediately spun around. "Stay here!" he ordered the Comte and his household, pausing just long enough to pass his main gauche to the Comte to leave them not entirely unprotected. Then he sprinted up the stairs while listening for the sounds from above – more crashing, coming closer as he drew near the larger staircase to the upper floor.

When he reached it, he froze, and his breath caught in his throat. Coming down the stairs was Aramis but not willingly so: he was held fast in the grip of a man who held Aramis' own pistol to his head. The right side of the marksman's face was stained with blood, and he was more being dragged along by the man than moving under his own power.

The man, thickset and dark, scowled when he saw Athos and demanded: "Out of my way, soldier! Or your comrade dies."

Athos took a step back, raising his hands though he was still holding his own pistol – but he could never take a shot before the man had pulled the trigger, and he was not willing to attack while the man held his brother's life in his hands. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I want to leave," the man replied, "and you're gonna let me if you value this man's life. Drop your weapon and move back until you're at the wall." He edged along the wall towards the open door and shouted: "You out there, move out of the way! Do not try anything, or he pays the price!"

Athos could only guess whether the man knew that Porthos and d'Artagnan were out there or just guessing that the two of them had not been alone. But no matter what, he had no choice; the man was watching him closely and pushing the pistol hard against Aramis' temple. Aramis gave a small, involuntary whimper as the cold metal pressed against the bruise forming there. Athos opened his hand, letting the pistol fall, and moved backwards. "You won't get far," he said with a calm he did not feel, "and you're just making things more difficult for yourself. If you let him go, you may yet find mercy."

The man laughed, an ugly, baying sound. "Nah, I don' think so," he replied. "Go on your knees. Don't come after us. Remember, it's up to you if he lives or dies."

Athos cast his mind desperately about for a solution but there was none available to him – he did not have any option of disarming the man without Aramis coming to harm, nor could he stop him. Instead, he had to watch helplessly as his brother was dragged away.


	4. Stab wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers won’t allow that man to take their brother away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued from day 6 - Dragged away
> 
> Again, I’m sorry for the cliffhanger and especially for taking a day longer than planned to resolve it. I’ll try to keep the rest of Whumptober multichapter- and cliffhanger-free!

Porthos stood before the manor door, pistol at the ready and one eye on both the door and the gate to the street. It had been a while since his brothers had entered the house, leaving him to watch their backs, and he had to suppress the urge to fidget. He didn't like how quiet it was – whatever had happened here, he hoped they would not find only bodies.

He raised an eyebrow when d'Artagnan slipped back around the corner of the house and shook his head. "Couldn't find a way in," he said in a low voice as he took position next to him.

Porthos harrumphed. "Let's hope then that the two of them can 'andle it," he said. "Or you wanna go join them?"

d'Artagnan considered it, then shook his head. "They'll be fine, as long as it stays quiet," he replied. "Maybe it's a good thing there's only the one entrance – they can flush them out and drive them to us."

Porthos grinned. "Tha' would be nice. Though, do things ever work out that nicely for us?"

The Gascon laughed, then shook a finger admonishingly at him. "Don't tempt fate, my friend."

"Never," he swore and raised his free hand to the medallion at his neck. They both knew it was a lie, they tempted fate almost daily in word and in deed and wouldn't have it any other way.

Falling silent again, they both listened for any sounds from within the house, watching for any movement. When a crash was heard from inside, they both exchanged looks. Porthos stepped closer to the door, looking through the gap, then shook his head at d'Artagnan to indicate he could not see anything. There was another crash but just as he was about to go into the house, he saw Athos come into view, weapon ready – and stop, staring at something beyond Porthos' field of vision. A voice spoke, and even though he could not understand the words, the tone was enough to tell him what he needed to know.

Porthos backed up, waving d'Artagnan over and only spoke when he could press his lips to the young man's ear, whispering: "There's someone in there, and I couldn't see but I'm guessin' 'e's got Aramis. Otherwise, Athos would've engaged 'im."

d'Artagnan nodded, worry clear on his face. "What are we going to do?" he murmured.

"Move back and stay close to the wall. I'll draw 'is attention. When there's a chance, get 'im."

Porthos had barely finished speaking when the man inside shouted out to them to get out of the way, confirming his guess. He straightened up and stepped back, giving d'Artagnan a firm nod. His friend returned the nod and then moved back to the wall opposite the side the door opened to, flattening himself against it. Porthos knew he was betting on the man not knowing how many of them were here – if he couldn't keep his attention focused on himself, d'Artagnan would be discovered within seconds, having no real cover here at the front of the house. Still, there was no time for better planning.

"Who're you?" he called out. There was no answer, but then he hadn't really expected one. It was just intended to make the man aware of him but no-one else. Holstering his pistol, he took another few steps back, taking a position that would make the man turn to look at him, presenting his back to d'Artagnan.

It took another few agonising moments until the door was pulled open and Aramis was pushed through, another man following behind quickly as he held a pistol – Aramis' own – to the marksman's head. Seeing Porthos, he smiled with satisfaction. "At least you know when you don't have a chance, soldiers," he scoffed. "You seem to be valuable to them," he continued, speaking close to Aramis' ear, "maybe you're worth something? Someone with a high rank in your regiment or something? I should take you and see how much they pay to get you back in one piece."

"We're not worth anythin' in money," Porthos said. He held himself upright, arms spread out to prove he was hiding no weapons apart from those clearly sheathed at his hip. "But we value each other. Don't hurt 'im!" He put a touch of pleading in his voice, widening his eyes as if he was afraid – well, more afraid. The man seemed to be too cocky and full of himself, a swagger to his step that spoke of overconfidence, but he still had overwhelmed Aramis and held his life in his hands, so he was truly worried, as he was also at Aramis' half-conscious dazed expression.

The man sneered as he pushed Aramis ahead of him, the marksman struggling to keep his feet as his glassy eyes tried to hold Porthos' gaze. "If you don't make trouble, you'll get him back almost good as new."

Suddenly, he stiffened and gasped, the pistol falling from nerveless fingers. Behind him, d'Artagnan's face appeared over his shoulder as the Gascon hissed: "We'd just rather keep him right now, thanks." He gave another tug to what Porthos assumed was a knife in the man's back, and the man's eyes rolled back into his head as he collapsed.

Porthos rushed forward to catch Aramis when the man's hold on him vanished. He lowered him to the ground carefully while d'Artagnan did the same with the man's body with much less care.

"Hey! Aramis!", he called his friend, patting his cheek lightly. "You with us?"

At first, the marksman moaned, turning his head away from the offending hand, but after a moment, he blinked up at Porthos, eyes still heavy-lidded but with clear recognition in them. "Porthos?"

The big Musketeer smiled in relief. "Yeah, it's me," he said. "How's your head?"

"My head?" Aramis frowned in confusion and raised a hand to his temple. Porthos quickly caught it and held it to keep him from touching the wound. "Hurts," the wounded man confessed.

Porthos hummed in reply. "Yeah, bet it does. Looks like he got you good." He looked up when Athos and d'Artagnan joined them, giving them a smile. "He'll be alright – guess it's a concussion," he told them, and they both sagged with relief. "Is the house clear?" he asked their leader.

Athos frowned down at the dead man lying next to them. "I'll have to ask the Comte if he was the only one," he said with a gesture to the body. "Aramis, did you find more of them upstairs?" he asked, crouching down at his side.

Aramis made an effort to focus on Athos' face at being addressed, though it obviously pained him. Athos waited patiently while he gathered his wits until he finally shook his head lightly, wincing slightly at the movement. "No," he murmured, "just ... bodies."

Athos raised an eyebrow, then stood up. "I'll go fetch the Comte and his household and check it out," he decided. "Porthos, you stay with Aramis. d'Artagnan, bring him some water and Aramis' kit – get that wound cleaned up." He hesitated before he stepped closer again and grasped d'Artagnan, pulling him close in a desperate hug, then turned to Porthos and pulled him up and towards him as well. "Thank you," he said, voice low. "When he dragged him away ... Thank you."

Porthos felt a surge of affection swell in his chest. It was rare for Athos to show his emotion so openly, and it was testament to how helpless he must have felt, something so alien to the self-possessed soldier. "Always, brother," he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't manage to fit it into the story but the idea was that the bandit had decided to keep their spoils of robbing the Comte's house to himself, so he killed his partners. And I should have given the baddie a knife so the whump would go to one of our guys ...
> 
> I'm not too happy with this one, which is why it took me a day longer to finish. Oh well, I never thought I would manage one every day anyway 🤷🏻♀️. I hope you like it anyway!


	5. Pinned down (Athos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That ambush is not going the way Athos wants it to _at all_. (Not that he wants it in the first place.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My summaries get sillier by the day XD. But yes, Athos is not having a good day.

They were still one day from Paris when the ambush came.

Athos ducked low in the saddle at the unmistakable sound of a musket discharging, mumbling a low curse. The Captain had warned them that the documents they were carrying were valuable but they had almost made it home without incident ... He should have known they wouldn't be so lucky. But at least the shot went wide, it seemed. He twisted around in the saddle and looked behind them: a large group, ten men at a glance, closing in quickly, and there were more pistols raised in their direction.

"Go, go go!" he shouted to the others. They could still get away or at least get enough distance between them to be able to select their place and time for the confrontation. None of his friends objected, and they all spurred their mounts on, bent low over the horses' necks.

Athos put on a burst of speed to catch up to Porthos but there was another discharge of a pistol behind them, and suddenly the world shifted sharply to the right when his steed lurched beneath him. All he could do was think stupidly: "Why am I moving sideways? That's the wrong direction," and then he slammed into the ground, his entire right side engulfed in agony that was a moment later punctured by a bright star of pain blooming in his lower leg. For a few breaths, his vision dimmed, and he held onto consciousness by his fingertips as he fought to bring his body back under control. When his vision cleared again, he realised he was on the ground, on his side, and there was something heavy on his leg. He turned his head, craning his neck, trying to orient himself, but all he saw at first was grass. Looking down at least told him what had happened – the thing lying on his leg was his horse. The beast did not move at all, and Athos closed his eyes at the realisation that it was not getting up. Wriggling his leg to see if he could move it made him almost bite through his lip when the movement set it on fire again. And it seemed as if he could not move – he was stuck.

He opened his eyes again to try and see what had happened to the others, and his eyes found two boots standing directly in front of him. Following the legs upwards, he breathed a sigh of relief as he recognised Porthos' broad back. The big man's deep voice rolled over him as he called out to the attackers, challenging them as he stood protectively over Athos.

Athos frowned, looked around and tried to take stock. He could not get up but could he at least reach his weapons so he was not entirely helpless? As much as it calmed his heart to know Porthos was nearby – and he was sure Aramis and d'Artagnan were not far off – he was feeling very exposed, and he could not abide the thought that Porthos would come to harm because he was hindered in his movements during the fight because he was protecting him.

He freed his arm from beneath his body and shifted until he could draw his sword. His other hand found his main gauche and removed it from its sheath at his back. So far, so good. Getting to his pistols was more difficult since he had shifted backwards in the fall and one of them was buried beneath his horse's body, but he reached one of them at least with some stretching. Thus armed, he brought his attention back to the events around him; the sounds already told him that the fight was in full swing.

He looked up in time to see that Porthos was fighting two men at once, and he could see the big Musketeer was trying to move a little as possible, shielding him as best he could. Carefully, not daring to call out to his friend in fear of disturbing his concentration or drawing undue attention from their attackers, he brought up his pistol and levelled it at one of Porthos' opponents, holding his breath as he squeezed the trigger. The discharge was deafening in his ears but he was gratified when the man dropped where he stood.

Porthos looked back and down at him, surprise written all over his face. "Oi! Thanks," he called but wasted no time in returning his attention to his remaining opponent, finishing him off in a few brutal strikes.

Athos dropped the spent pistol and picked up his sword and dagger, keeping both at the ready, but Porthos managed to keep the brigands away from him. There was nothing he could do but lie there, ready for anything, craning his neck around from time to time to try but fail to catch sight of Aramis or d'Artagnan, and hating every moment of it.

It seemed to be ages later that the sounds of fighting finally ceased, and then someone dropped down next to him. "Athos," Aramis said breathlessly, and he looked up to meet the marksman's eyes. "How are you?"

Athos didn't reply; his eyes were roaming over his friend's body, reassured that he did not see any obvious wounds, and then past him, searching for d'Artagnan and Porthos again. They had to be alright; otherwise, Aramis would have gone to them first, right?

"Athos," Aramis repeated, his tone more insistent, and he cupped Athos' cheek to pull his gaze towards him. "Are you with me?"

"Hmm," Athos nodded. Blinking, he clarified: "Yes, I am. I think my leg is broken but I'm fine. Are you alright? d'Artagnan, Porthos?"

Aramis smiled with open relief. "A broken leg doesn't sound fine to me," he rebuked him lightly. "But yes, we're alright. Nothing major. I guess your leg is stuck beneath your horse?"

Athos scowled at him but knew it lacked any real heat – he was far too relieved to hear that everyone was alright. "Yes," he confirmed. "I'd be glad for some assistance."

The marksman nodded and looked over his head to the others. "You two lift the horse, I free his leg," he instructed them.

"I can move by myself," Athos grumbled.

Aramis shook his head at him, _tsk_ing disapprovingly. "Maybe you can, my friend, but it's not advisable. Better not to do any more damage to that leg than there is already," he said, his tone brooking no argument. Athos sighed but nodded his assent.

And so he submitted to being freed, having his leg set and splinted by Aramis, and then being lifted upon d'Artagnan's horse behind the Gascon for the remaining journey back home, the valuable letters in his saddlebags tied to Porthos' steed. He had rarely felt so useless, but as distasteful as the experience was, if he could accept the protection and care of anyone, it was from these three men, and he found that he did not mind it too much.


	6. 18. Muffled scream (Porthos)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the run from attackers with a wounded Porthos, d’Artagnan and Athos have to take drastic measures to make sure he does not give away their location.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally intending to set this during the war but then stumbled over having to explain why Athos as the Captain is with them and they’re separated from the regiment. Then I wanted to do it as a mission but why isn’t Aramis with them? Finally, I decided that maybe all of that isn’t important to getting your whump on. So, where are they? No idea! Where is Aramis? I don’t know! Who has attacked them and why? Who cares! Backstory is for losers :p.
> 
> With a nod to Jevvica‘s headcanon that knocking Porthos out is their way to deal with his trauma-induced reaction to getting stitches/having severe injuries treated (see "[The Best Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727752)").

It felt like they had been on the run for hours – even if they were far from actual running. They had to take a break, find something where they could hide and regroup.

Athos glanced worriedly at Porthos. The large Musketeer was hanging between d'Artagnan and him, skin almost grey, face lax and eyes on half-mast, even though he was still doggedly trying to put one foot in front of the other, with middling success. If they did not find a place to tend to him soon, they could lose him.

As if reading his thoughts, d'Artagnan gasped: "There!" He pointed to the left with his free hand, and Athos narrowed his eyes at the small opening cut into the side of the mountain they were traversing. Bushes were blocking the entrance, so he could not see if it was a cave or a mere cutting in the rock, but it may have been the best place they had passed ever since the ambush. "Alright," he agreed, and they veered off towards the opening. Shifting Porthos to lean against the rock while Athos kept hold of him, d'Artagnan slipped from beneath his arm and between the bushes to check what they had found. Within moments, he was back, a tired smile of relief on his face. "It's a small cave – not much but just enough room for us three with some space to move," he reported.

Athos nodded, mirroring his relief. "Let's get him in there, then," he said.

It took some manoeuvring but finally, they were more or less safely ensconced within the small cave. Athos wasted no time and bent over his friend, a hand at his cheek. "Porthos," he called in a low voice, "are you with us?"

Porthos' eyelids fluttered with the effort to raise them but the eyes below them were unfocused, and he only managed a groan in response. Athos sat back on his heels, worrying his lip with his teeth and wishing Aramis was here. He felt off-balance without their medic. But luckily, at least d'Artagnan was with him. The young man was already stripping off his weapon belt and gloves, hesitated as he looked around the small cave, then looked back at Athos. "We'll have to sacrifice a shirt or two – nothing else to use as bandages," he said quietly.

Athos just nodded and shrugged out of his doublet, pulling off his shirt and drawing his main gauche to cut it into strips. "What else do you need?" he asked.

d'Artagnan shoved a hand through his hair, eyes narrowed on Porthos' face. "You have your flask?" It was a rhetorical question, and Athos was long past the point of caring whether he was judged for always keeping some alcohol with him. More often than not, it had gone to treating wounds of their bodies rather than soothing those of his soul, anyway. So he just nodded while he worked on turning his shirt into long strips of linen.

"Alright. We can't make a fire, so we'll have to make due." d'Artagnan sighed, then went to work on getting Porthos out of his doublet and the shirt underneath. Most of the right side of the linen was saturated with blood, turning the fabric a startling dark red, and Athos winced at the sight. It looked even worse than he had imagined. He quickly banished the what-ifs threatening to unspool in his head and piled the makeshift bandages at Porthos' side, placing his hip flask next to them.

d'Artagnan hesitated again. He had learned from Aramis and had proved to be a far more adept pupil than Porthos or Athos himself but he was yet lacking the surety and experience that made Aramis move to do what needed to be done almost without thought. He looked to Athos and asked: "Do we--?" He made a punching motion with his hand curled into a fist.

"I dare not," Athos confessed, putting a gentle hand just below the wound at Porthos' temple, the blood spilt there almost all of the colour in his friend's face. "Aramis was adamant about it whenever he'd suffered a head wound. Those were the only times we did not knock him out." He kept his voice low though he was sure Porthos was too far gone, hanging onto consciousness by the skin of his teeth, to understand what they were talking about.

d'Artagnan brought a hand to his mouth and chewed on the nail of his thumb as he thought. "There's also the danger that he might scream," he pointed out. "We don't know who could hear it."

Athos nodded, clenching his jaw. "But at the risk of him never waking up again or sustaining some damage that can't be fixed ..." He trailed off and made a helpless gesture.

"Whatever we do, we need to do it soon," d'Artagnan returned. "The ball must come out, and I must stop the bleeding."

The older Musketeer took a deep breath. "Alright," he said, "then let's do it." He pulled Porthos forward, away from the wall they had leaned him against, then slipped behind his back to brace him from behind and pulled the headscarf from his curls. "Give me my scarf," he instructed d'Artagnan, indicating where he had put it on top of his doublet.

The lad handed it over and asked: "What are you doing?"

"Making sure he does not scream," Athos returned darkly. He murmured an apology to Porthos as he used his headscarf to gag him and secured it with his scarf; the injured man struggled against the pressure of the fabric invading his mouth and restricting his breathing but weak as he was, it took worryingly little effort for Athos to contain him. He prayed that Porthos would forgive him for his rough handling, and even more that his brother would just pass out soon and spare all of them some pain.

d'Artagnan was watching them, horror in his eyes, and Athos snapped at him: "d'Artagnan! Get on with it."

The Gascon nodded shakingly and drew his main gauche. "Alright," he said, "are you ready?"

"As much as I'll ever be," Athos replied and closed his eyes, pressing his face into Porthos' curls, as d'Artagnan cut into the large man's shoulder to chase down the bullet buried in it. The sounds started almost immediately, the agony of d'Artagnan's ministrations pulling Porthos from his stupor, first as a whimper and building to what would have certainly been a scream, if not for the gag in his mouth. Athos could hear d'Artagnan's low voice over it, speaking words of comfort and encouragement, but any meaning got lost as Porthos tried to move away from the pain, tried to breathe, tried to scream, and still he would not pass out. _Please_, he begged in his head, _please, Porthos, just let go._

d'Artagnan pulled something from the wound and dropped it with disgust; it made a tinny sound as it struck the stone of the cave's floor. Sitting back on his heels, the young man took a deep breath, then picked up the flask. "I'm rather hoping this will finally knock him out," he murmured, and Athos could not have agreed more.

The touch of the burning liquid to the wound made Porthos go wild, thrashing in Athos' grip, and he felt the choked sounds escaping the gag tear into his very soul. Still, he held on until finally, Porthos fell limp against him. d'Artagnan immediately placed a hand at his neck and slumped in relief. "He's out," he breathed.

"Unconscious?" Athos asked tremulously, remembering all too vividly the times when Porthos had fallen into some strange state in-between, looking for all the world like he was dead, barely breathing, before they had found the not very sophisticated but effective method of punching him to knock him out.

d'Artagnan pulled Porthos' eyelid up and checked his pupils, listened to his breathing, then nodded. "It looks like it."

Athos breathed a sigh of relief as the Gascon busied himself with readying his needle and threat. He knew this was only the first step; they still needed to make sure the blood loss did not kill him, and they had to get back to safety, but they had made it so far. They would manage the rest of the way, too, as long as Porthos was with them.


	7. 10. Tear-stained (d'Artagnan)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a rainy evening, and the three Musketeers are missing their fourth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the last of the Whumptober fics! Well, at least in October… I’m hoping to continue writing the prompts I didn’t fill so far.
> 
> I love the trope that d'Artagnan is grieving for his father when it rains. There are probably a thousand permutations of that out there but that won’t keep me from adding my own.

Athos looked up at his friends when they dropped into the empty chairs at their customary table of their favourite tavern. “Good evening, Gentlemen,” he drawled and pushed his bottle – with a slight dent in its contents already – towards them. Porthos and Aramis returned his greetings and gratefully filled their cups, taking a happy healthy swallow of the wine. Wine paid for by Athos and shared with them always promised to be a treat.

They spent some time whiling away the evening mostly by contemplating the contents of their cups in the manner customary after a long and tiring day, gathering some energy for further pursuits, just disrupted by a few remarks exchanged here and there. Finally, Athos noticed something was off – but it was an entirely usual evening, was it not? It took him another few minutes of quiet consideration until he managed to pinpoint what it was.

“Has either of you seen d'Artagnan?” he asked.

Porthos and Aramis looked up at him, then at each other before shaking their head in concert. “We’d assumed he’d already be here,” Porthos said. The young Gascon was still somewhat of a newcomer in their midst, even if it surprised all of the older men at how much he had already made his home with them. Still, it had only been the three of them for so long that it did not always immediately register when they were not at their suddenly increased full number.

“I’d thought he would be with you,” Athos said, somewhat unpleasantly surprised by the feeling of disquiet their lack of knowledge of their companion’s whereabouts stirred within him.

“Maybe he had some previous engagement with Madame Bonacieux?” Aramis offered doubtfully. It was a reasonable guess, given that the draper’s wife was the only person outside of the Garrison d'Artagnan knew well.

“He didn’t say.” Porthos shrugged.

“He actually didn’t say much all day,” Athos murmured, twirling his cup between his fingers as he thought back over the hours they had spent with their young friend.

“True.” Aramis frowned. “I didn’t think much of it but … Don’t you think he was a bit off today?”

The three exchanged glances. “He didn’t seem to enjoy sparring as much as he usually does,” Athos said. They had been kept at the Garrison for training, something which d'Artagnan usually met with much more enthusiasm than his friends who had much less left to learn – even if teaching the young man had turned out to be quite enjoyable to all of them. It had not helped that the day was overcast and oppressive, interrupted by short bursts of rain and ominous thunder that brought little relief.

“And he was rather quiet – and didn’t eat much, I think,” Porthos agreed.

“Maybe something with Madame–” Aramis started but was quickly quelled by Athos’ sharp gaze. They all knew the lad was smitten with his lovely landlady but Aramis, as the romantic and lover of the fairer sex, was especially fascinated by the … thing blossoming between them. Somehow, Athos did not think that lovesickness was the problem, however.

Another round of looks passed between them, and then they stood as one. “The Garrison is closer,” Athos decided. “Also, no need to worry Constance unduly if he’s there.”

The other two nodded, and leaving a few coins on the table for their wine, they left the tavern.

Outside, more rain had started to fall while they had been inside, and they pulled their hats down and shoulders up as they made their way to the Garrison. One look at their usual table showed that d'Artagnan wasn’t there – not surprisingly, since the courtyard did not offer any protection against the rain.

“Stables?” Porthos suggested, cocking his head in their direction. The Gascon loved the horses and got along well with Jacques, the stable boy, often spending time in there helping out.

The stables were a blessed relief after the downpour outside, the large room filled with the warmth and gentle sounds of the large animals sleeping and shifting occasionally in their boxes. As they made their way down the corridor, another sound mixed into them, and it took Athos only a moment to recognise d'Artagnan’s voice. He exhaled in relief. The lad was talking in a low voice, more of a murmur, like he usually did when taking care of a skittish horse, and Athos felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth.

The next sound made the smile freeze and slip off his face. It was a sob.

He turned and exchanged a horrified look with his friends. The sob came again, and the anguish it was filled with broke Athos heart. He could see similar emotions on Aramis’ and Porthos’ faces as they stared at each other, trying to figure out what to do. Should they just go and not let d'Artagnan know they had been there? He was proud, often overly so, and knowing they had seen him in a moment of weakness would bother him a lot. But could they leave him to suffer alone, when they knew he was in distress?

The ensuing wordless discussion was fervent, and Athos glared at his brothers when it became clear they were united – somehow, he had been volunteered to be the one to talk to d'Artagnan. He had no idea why – in his mind, both his friends were much better suited to the task. Aramis, with his deep empathy and way with words, was so good at offering solace that he had been able to talk Athos himself through some of his blackest moods. Porthos was too blunt for verbal comfort but he knew how and when to give physical comfort in a way only he could. Despite not seeking out or even allowing them all that often, Athos had cherished and memorised every hug Porthos had given him over the course of their friendship. Neither of these were skills he had to offer.

Nevertheless, he slumped in defeat when Aramis touched his arm and indicated with a gesture of his head that he and Porthos would be waiting just outside.

Alone, he moved forward carefully until he reached the box holding d'Artagnan’s horse and took in the tableau before him. d'Artagnan stood with his arms thrown around his horse’s neck, face buried in its mane, his slender frame trembling with the force of his weeping. Taking a deep breath, Athos knocked against the wooden panel and called out: “d'Artagnan?”

The dark head came up sharply, and the young man stood motionless for a moment before he hastily wiped his face and turned around. “Athos!” The smile on his face was a fragile, trembling thing that did nothing to hide the overly bright shine of his eyes or the tear tracks on his cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t join us at the tavern tonight,” Athos replied while he stepped closer, crossing his arm to rest atop the door of the box with a nonchalance he did not feel and feeling not unlike trying to calm a skittish horse. “We were … concerned.”

d'Artagnan turned back towards his horse and busied himself with untangling some knots in its mane. “I don’t spend every evening with you,” he pointed out.

“I know,” Athos conceded. “Usually, you talk to us, though – which you did not do much of all day, as we noticed.”

The Gascon just shrugged and did not reply. Athos looked at the rigid back of his young friend stubbornly turned to him and sighed, waiting a few more moments before he continued to prod: “d'Artagnan, talk to me. What is causing you such unhappiness?” He took care to keep his voice soft and make it a request, not an order.

“It’s nothing, Athos,” d'Artagnan finally replied, after several more moments in which the only movements were his fingers studiously combing through his horse’s mane, and Athos had been all but convinced he would not receive an answer.

The older Musketeer raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? You’re in the habit of hiding in the stables and weeping like a child for no reason at all?” he drawled. If a careful approach did not do, maybe a provocation would.

d'Artagnan whirled around, his face flushed with embarassment. “I did not–” He broke off, then slumped against his horse that whinnied softly and bumped his shoulder with its nose. “Just leave it, Athos,” he said wearily.

The swordsman opened the door and stepped into the box, approaching d'Artagnan cautiously and reaching out to grasp the narrow shoulders. “I will never ignore it when you are in distress,” he said. “Please, share your burden with me. Let us help.”

The Gascon looked away, biting his lip, but he did not shrug off the contact which Athos took for a good sign. Finally, he heaved a sigh and mumbled: “It’s silly but– It’s the rain.”

Athos frowned. “The rain?”

“It was raining when my father died.” d'Artagnan looked up then, and the pain and vulnerability in his dark eyes almost took Athos’ breath away. “It’s not the same – it was November and freezing – but whenever it rains, it–” he shook his head, “he’s been on my mind all day.”

Athos hummed in understanding. “Grief shows itself in the strangest things,” he said, unconsciously reaching for the amulet hidden under his scarf.

“I just—” d'Artagnan’s breath hitched, and his voice was that of a young boy, lost in a world that no longer had its anchor, when he confessed: “I just miss him so much.”

Athos’ heart ached for him when he turned away and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with a new wave of emotion. He stepped closer and rubbed a hand along the trembling back of his friend. d'Artagnan did not often speak of his family but they knew at least that he and his father had been on their own for many years, his mother having passed when he had been a young child. And it had only been a few months – it was no wonder the pain of losing him was still so raw. “I know,” he whispered gently, “I know. It’s alright.”

He was not prepared when d'Artagnan suddenly turned and threw his arms around him, clinging to him with surprising strength. For a moment, his hands hovered helplessly in the air while d'Artagnan buried his head in his shoulder and started weeping again, then settled one atop the dark hair and resumed rubbing his back with the other. After a while, he let himself slide down the wall of the box, taking the young man with him, until they sat in the hay, legs sprawled out, and he just held his friend while he wept.

That was how Aramis and Porthos found them when they came cautiously looking for them. Athos looked up at them without moving – d'Artagnan had drifted off, it seemed, after crying himself dry, and he was unwilling to get up just yet. So he motioned with his head for them to join them – which required Porthos sensibly leading d'Artagnan’s horse out of the box into another one – and then leaned his head back against the wood. When his friends had settled on both his sides, he felt their questioning gaze on him, so he opened one eye again and told them in a low voice: “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, they could talk to d'Artagnan and try to figure out a better way to help him deal with his grief. For now, it was enough they were together and he was not alone with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who followed along on these stories and left kudos and comments, bookmarked or subscribed! I apologise that I didn't get around to answer all comments yet (though I will, in good time). Please keep watching if you want to read whatever I'll come up with next :).


End file.
